


This Is The Fear

by Hiddenbehindthebook



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Supernatural (TV) Fusion, Big Brother Dean, Blindness, Bottom Dean, Broken Castiel, Broken Dean, Broken Families, Broken Promises, Castiel Plays the Piano, Dark, Dark Dean Winchester, Destiel - Freeform, Destiel Fanfic, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Domestic Fluff, Drug Use, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gay Male Character, Human Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Killing, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Mortality, Mountains, POV Dean Winchester, Piano, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Serial Killers, Singing, Snow, Snow Angels, Snowed In, Sweetness, Top Castiel, cas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-16 14:10:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2272698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiddenbehindthebook/pseuds/Hiddenbehindthebook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don't put two killers in a room together, right? Whoops. Buckle in, boys. It's gonna be a bumpy ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A More Profound Bond

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to make it known that the idea comes from an AU head canon. Enjoy! :)  
> Please leave feedback. Xxxxx

 

"Ten minutes to the neeeeeeewbie!" The voice blaring into his ear sounded joyous, and Dean was plagued by the sudden urge to set the owner of it on fire. Dean glared at the device in his hand after the line cut off abruptly. They seemed to always be brief. They had been since the dawn of time, he often thought. They probably always would be. Occasionally, if Dean had been working around the clock, Sam would try and get him to come to dinner. Dean wanted to, of course he did. It was Sam.

Why couldn't he have an apple pie life?

He was supposed to be _normal._

Dean needed to get out.

But there was only one way out of the group, and Dean knew it. People didn't just escape from a lifetime of cruelty in one day. Besides, what would he even do? This was him. He would have to follow his orders.

Sure, it was dangerous. But who cares?

Unfortunately, he knew the answer to that. Sam. Sam cared.

And it would break him if anything happened to Dean.

He would never leave Sam alone. And that's why he couldn't leave his "profession". Because that would make him a target, and Sam would become one, too.

Dean rubbed his unshaven chin, hoped for good luck, and shuffled unhappily towards the hotel room that had been reserved for him.

 

***

  _Six years ago_

 

He was thirteen. The first time he'd killed.

The sun was shining brightly, and Dean pounced on his rusty bicycle to speed by the lake with Charlie. They'd skip stones, and climb trees, and chat mindlessly for hours like they did almost every summer afternoon. Usually it was the three of them: Charlie, Sam, and Dean. A trio. But not today. Oh, no. Today, little Sammy was to movie marathon with the perky brunette that went by the name of Tessa. Dean was always hesitant about allowing his baby brother go anywhere by himself, but Tessa was.... Trustworthy.

Dean still ended up placing a slip of paper with his phone number written on it in his pocket. Sam groaned about Dean's protectiveness on a regular basis. Secretly, though, Dean thought that he enjoyed being fussed over. Sam would deny that on pain of death, of course.

Sam would have to miss out on the adventures of the trio. Dean was ecstatic, nonetheless. Charlie was his best friend, and practically family. He'd do anything for her.

That day, he had to.

He'd known something was off when Charlie wasn't there before him. She always beat him there. She was a speedy rider, and it was her pride and joy. 

His first instinct was to search along the shoreline. It was quiet, but not ominously so. Birds pigmented by the brightest colors on the rainbow whistled as they collected fluff and comfort for their tiny nests. It was peaceful. The water was still, and there was no chill to the air, nor was there even a breeze.

After trailing the edge of the water and finding nothing, he began to retrace his steps. When he eventually wound up in front of his bike, nothing had been altered since he arrived. There remained no sign of Charlie, and the birds certainly weren't giving him any clues. 

Her bicycle was nowhere to be found. It was unlikely that she hiked here, but perhaps if it had been a rough day at home...

Then he heard her screams. The shrieks of a young girl are not easily confused, so he bolted towards the piercing noise. He trusted only his ears and memory of a switchblade burning a hole in his pocket.

She'd been running. Quite a distance, by the looks of her. Her fiery hair stayed plastered to her forehead, and the red lines streaking down her face hurt Dean more than they probably hurt her. He was terrified, and that seemed to be the only thought he was capable of forming.

_This is what horror feels like._

 The tear streaks on Charlie's face frightened him the most. She had never been one to crack easily. She hadn't broken down on the day her parents split, and she stood tall when a group of rotten young boys had chased her around school labeling her "lesbian." Sam and Dean had intervened, when the protective side got the better part of them. One broken nose and a few black eyes later, they finally relented. There weren't any grudges between them and that group, oddly enough. It's funny how the quarrels that start a war can also be the treaty to end it.  

Charlie moved on from it right away. She even befriended some of those boys, and Dean was sure they regretted trying to hurt her every time she grinned joyously at them. That was Charlie for you. Living life to the fullest.

She'd called out to him to run, but he couldn't. He was paralyzed. She'd barreled towards him like a bullet to its target. When she yanked on his arm, and he felt a distinct pop in it, she still dragged him with her. She clutched a stack of papers to her heaving chest with the other arm. Dean had forced the words out of his mouth, questions that had been flying inside his head were all thrown at her in disarray. The only form of an answer he was given was the word "followed".

Her shallow breaths had alarmed him, as was the shade of red she was becoming.

He cocked his head to look behind him, immediately  regretting it. A lengthy, burly man was almost directly behind them and he was armed with a pistol tucked into the waistband of his pants. A knife was clutched firmly in one meaty paw. That was motivation enough to keep sprinting through the leafy track. The group kept at it, too, until Dean found himself skidding on damp stones.

The man was dangerously close now. Dean was certain that if he took another step forwards, the strange man could smell the fear on him.

"Go away! Why are you after us?!" Dean cried out at the man, thinking his voice would squeak or quaver. He was pleasantly surprised when the tone remained even and strong. Despite the clear height change, and the difference in muscle from The Hulk in front of him to his awkward teenage body, coming face-to-face with the man lessened his worries. It was the first time that Dean had been _grateful_ for John's years of grueling training.

"Look, kiddo, just give me the papers, and nobody will get hurt here. 'Kay? The papers."  He sounded friendly, but the glint in his eye said otherwise. Re-examining the man, Dean supposed the blade in his hand did as well. Then when neither of them made a move, the man motioned towards Charlie. Out of habit, Dean took a step in front of her. His body became a shield.

The man grinned wickedly, twirling his knife. He glanced over his shoulder. He appeared to be waiting for some one, or something. It was one of the first qualities Dean noticed about the man.

"Why do you want them?" Charlie piped in, her voice also sounding courageous and loud. His chest swelled with pride.

 He was suddenly overcome with the random urge to smile. This was a joke. A joke, of course, that made sense. Really funny Charlie.

That wouldn't have convinced him even if the sirens wailing in the distance hadn't continued.

"None of ya business. 'Cause their mine, that's why."  He couldn't quite place the man's accent. Not quite Southern, but not matching anything Dean recalled.

The man's finger twitched where it was hovering over his blade, and Dean spotted it. Strike one, Hulky. Temper.

"No. They're mine." Charlie raised an eyebrow, and undoubtedly had a smart remark on the tip of her tongue, but then she seemed to notice her predicament, and her gaze faltered. Luckily, Hulk was watching Dean instead of her.

Charlie was insanely smart for her age, but Dean wondered why the hell she was poking around in _this guys_ stuff. Of all people to piss off, why choose a mountain of a man?

"Sorry then, kiddo." The man moved slower than expected, and unknowingly gave Dean the upper hand. Hulk's size was not an advantage in this situation. Dean was on him before he'd even released the knife.

Strike two.

Hulk's gleaming weapon clattered to the ground, grazing Dean's leg, and Charlie screamed repeatedly, but she eventually joined in, not to Dean's liking. Together they pounced on the larger man.

 

Dean hadn't meant to kill him.

 

But when the man clutched Charlie by the hair and swung at her face, Dean had snapped and tugged the knife out of his pocket. He'd only meant to scare him away, or injure him enough so they could flee. But the man had moved swiftly, and Dean misplaced his original target of cutting his leg. It plunged through the man's lower back, severing his spine, and he'd was dead before either child could cry out.

Strike three, you're out.

He'd been afraid of himself for a long time, not trusting himself with Sam, or Charlie, or anybody.

 Before, his mom used to tease him about separating himself from the other kids. He didn't like them. Mary had always said it was because they couldn't match his biting wit, or understand his sense of humor.

Maybe it was just because he didn't deserve friends.

***

The man had ended up being Uriel's target, so, great for Dean, Uriel now knew who he was, and he knew his skill level.

He'd recruited Dean to the group. He cleaned up the evidence of what was done that day. The man appeared to have disappeared into thin air. There wasn't a story on the news. There wasn't a funeral, that he was aware of. He almost felt bad for the guy.

 It was innocent in the beginning. A game, like a summer camp. They trained, and told stories of heroes saving the world.

Justice was the name of the group. Fine, Dean would join. Did he really have a choice?

They lied to him in the beginning.

"We only kill to protect the others."

"We save people."

"You'll be a hero."

Dean was trained in the art of killing within the first year, as he already knew how to fight effectively. Patience was a necessary skill. Uriel liked to keep him waiting.

 Dean was sent out on jobs after his first year and a half..

Nobody had known about it. Not Sam, not John, not Charlie. Dean hadn't even fully known.

***

It took Dean 2 years. Two years to realize. Two years to confront his boss about why he was really doing this, but by then, there was no escape.

It had taken him 4 years to build a reputation. To become a master.

Killing had become his art, and he had nothing to go back to.

And now, at 19, Dean was Uriel's best killer. He adored him. Not him, as in Dean Winchester. Uriel practically worshipped Dean's second identity, but while he was just Dean, he wasn't important enough.  He became known as the one who went out only under the cover of darkness. The one who preferred a knife to a shotgun. Uriel loved the masked killer that Dean found staring at him in the mirror more and more frequently.

He might have been Uriel's most sent out, but he was considered by all to be the least loyal.

He'd always rebelled against him, sometimes refusing a job entirely. He was always punished for embarrassing Justice in this way. Cowardice, they called it. Dean didn't think so. Mary had taught him otherwise.

Doesn't compassion also show strength?

 

_Fucking hell, he had to get out of this life._

 

 


	2. The Assignment

Dean seriously considered ditching the meeting, and going out to The Roadhouse, the only bar that'd let him get drunk at 19. At least, when Ellen wasn't there. She'd bust his ass if she found out.

He wrestled with the hotel door for a minute, eventually jamming his shoulder into the skinny opening and using it to pry the door from the wall. He was surprised at the fight it put up.

He wasn't, however, surprised to find Uriel waiting for him. The bastard didn't even help him in.

"Thanks for the help, _buddy._ " Dean raised an eyebrow as he said it, waiting for a response. Or a movement. At least an acknowledgment that his presence hadn't gone unnoticed. Uriel just peered up at him from his position on Dean's bad excuse of a couch. It was more like a half-empty hacky sack.

"I always help you," Uriel didn't even blink as he said it. _Yeah, right. Like you give a rat's ass about me._ Dean rolled his eyes and sat on the bed, reaching for the remote but pausing halfway to it, considering the stare he was receiving as a silent warning.

***

"We have a new target," Uriel sat straight on the floppy seating arrangement, tapping his knee with his left hand.

"The old one?"

"Terminated," Dean tried not to flinch. He'd known that one. Bella. She'd been a bitch, and a major pain in the ass, but not enough to have to die.

It was kind of comical, how hypocritical Dean's thoughts were.

"Where's the info?" Dean scanned the room, looking for the familiar bunch of papers that always accompanied a new job. If these papers were ever found, Dean would probably end up like Balthazar. Good guy. Bad luck.

"You should be able to find this one relatively easily. I believe you've communicated with him before?" Uriel motioned for Dean to stand, and when he did, Uriel tugged a pamphlet out of the inside of his thick coat. He thrust it at Dean, and Dean took it tentatively.

"He works for the G.O.D.A." Oh, yes. Uriel's _favorite_ group. They'd been rivals for years, always targeting the same victims and having to fight over them. Group Of Destructive Angels versus Justice And Termination Society. Angels v.s Terminators, for short. Almost an otherworldly war, raging for years before Dean had joined Justice.

Dean turned the first page with the poor guy's name and current information. Then he reached the next page, and stopped cold.

_It was Blue Eyes._

Uriel wasn't kidding when he'd said Dean would remember the guy. Although, they'd never actually met. They _had_ communicated before. Okay, maybe a lot.

Hey, security cameras and morse code could be quite the affective delivery system.

It had never dawned on Dean that he might have to fight this guy.

This guy was seriously good.

So good, that in over 30 hits, he remained anonymous. They had that in common, the masks. A different one for each kill. Dean could only recognize him because of those eyes.

A startling, intense blue.

And yeah, he'd seen the guys eyes, and they were attractive and all, but now Dean was _looking at his full face and holy fucking hell. This guy looked like a greek god._

Dean had considered himself to be straight, but it isn't like he'd never had a thought like that about another man. It had never particularly been an issue to him.

"WINCHESTER. I DO NOT HAVE ALL DAY," Dean, startled, glared back at Uriel. He'd only stared at the picture for a few seconds.

Probably.

"Right, okay, Chuckles. I'll handle it. When haven't I?" Dean willed him not to give examples of the times he had disobeyed, and silently cursed himself for bringing it back up.

Uriel smiled, and Dean knew he'd just thought of at least a dozen reasons to punish him.

"Okay then, Mr.Big Bad Wolf. You just prance in there with a baby knife and try and nab him. I'd like to see how that turns out. This guy is skilled, Winchester. I'm warning you now. Do not go unprepared." With that, Uriel trotted out of Dean's room. He waited until he could no longer hear the footsteps to turn on the news.

Blue eyes- Castiel, he now had a name- was on again. Not a killing, this time. Thievery of information. Dean wasn't listening, though. He just watched the security footage they showed, taking extra care to pay attention when Castiel looked directly at the camera.

A cat mask, Dean had noted.

Castiel blinked in the code they had always used.

_H-E-A-R-D-------I-M-------A-------T-A-R-G-E-T-------N-O-W_

_W-H-A-T-------A-------S-H-A-M-E_

_S-E-E-------Y-O-U-------S-O-O-N-------T-H-E-N-------G-R-E-E-N-------E-Y-E-S_

Damnit, Cas. I don't want to fight you.

 


	3. New and Old Friends

It had been two weeks since Dean had been given his assignment.

Two weeks, and he hadn't struck.

Uriel was getting impatient, and jumpy, too. Dean didn't know how, or why, but it was important to his boss that this man was exterminated. Uriel was constantly calling to check in, sending notes, and once, he'd even sent somebody, Benny, to tell him that he was wasting too much time.

But Dean hadn't been _wasting_ time. He was studying. Collecting information. Planning, he'd called it when sending a message back to Uriel. He now knew exactly where "Castiel" would be.

Blue Eyes had a job.

It seemed strange, for him to do something so mundane.  It made sense, of course. But seriously?

A _burger stand?_

A serial killer walks into a burger stand, and - it sounds like the set up to a bad joke.

He did a lot of usual things. He was human, after all.

He drove a Prius. He had his degrees in culinary arts, and music composition. He lived in a small, one bedroom/one bathroom apartment on the corner of Willow and Brooks. On Saturdays, he volunteered at the library.

He was a _regular_ at the Tea Leaves. A coffee shop.

People knew him, people liked him.

So what the hell was he doing working for the G.O.D.A's?

The only thing he knew about his role in the company, was that he worked for Abby. The Red Bitch, Uriel called her.

Dean needed to know more, and he didn't have enough time to learn it.

 

***

 

Dean strolled quickly through the now familiar neighborhood in which he knew Castiel lived. He kept his head down, not drawing attention to himself. It was hard not to be noticed here. It was a quiet area, out of the way. Small town. Regular people didn't usually just walk by.

It was cloudy, and rain threatened to spill over at any moment.

It almost helped him to relax, although it made his wrist flare up, as it always did whenever it rained.

Castiel's car wasn't in the driveway. It wouldn't arrive until around 5:30pm, so Dean had around half an hour to prepare. He had parked the Impala blocks away, outside in the parking lot of a grocery store, and he'd walked to the small living space. There was no security, he'd found out the first time he'd done this. Although, did an experienced killer really need security?

Dean circled around to the back of the apartment, and took the back stairs to Castiel's section of the building. It would storm, soon. A large one, Dean judged from the insistent throbbing in his wrist as well as the black clouds above.

He jiggled the window open, and pulled himself through, ending up sitting on the bathroom countertop. It was small, organized. A toothbrush sat in a small cup on the sink. It was blue. (The exact color of Castiel's eyes, although he willed himself not to notice every time he saw it.)

He scooted off of the counter, quietly examining the apartment, not for the first time. He smiled at the sight of a grand piano crammed into one side of the small living room. He'd never seen Castiel play it, but he'd heard him, once. The sound of it had flooded the room and carried outside to where Dean had been crouched to the ground. He'd frozen, enchanted by it. He had ended up forcing himself to leave, worried that he'd get caught if he stayed too long.

Three framed photographs stood on a deep brown coffee table. The first image, a small, cream colored house, surrounded by a field of wildflowers with a small pond to the side. Dean didn't know what it was, or why Castiel had it, but it was beautiful, and Dean had to admit, he wouldn't mind living there.

The next, a girl with red hair, cradling a small child to her chest. Dean had taken it out before, and had found the girl's name on the back. It read, "Anna+baby Meg," in small, cursive handwriting. A sister, or a friend, Dean had assumed, based on the fact that Castiel didn't wear a ring, and Anna wasn't wearing one in the photo.

In the last frame, sat a picture of three people, and they held a sign together. "All the world's a stage." They all wore costumes, poofy gowns on two of them, and baggy pants and a tunic on the man on the left. None of them were Cas.

Dean caught himself on the nickname. He was shocked at how easily he'd been able to swap out Blue Eyes for his actual name, and if he were completely honest, he almost wished he could call him his name all the time when they communicated. It suited him in a way Dean couldn't explain.

Dean studied the apartment. Nothing had changed since he was last here. The bed remained unmade, the closet door open, the light bulb in the kitchen still needed to be changed. The floors were still squeaky clean, and a pair of running shoes remained by the door.

 

***

 

Dean had been looking through a box in the closet when it started to pour. He should get back to his car, he'd decided, so he was putting everything back when the padding of shoes against steps startled him. He'd been sloppy, not even hearing the car.

Shit.

The sound of a key turning in the lock persuaded Dean into the closet, where he pressed his back against the wall behind the clothes, and clutched a knife to his chest with one hand, gripping a gun inside his jacket with the other.

Castiel pushed against the door, using his weight to pry it open. Dean didn't shake, he stayed still, telling himself, _this is it, this is it, just get the job done and get out of here._

Dean heard Cas drop his keys on the table, and he heard him setting his things on the floor. He must have removed his shoes, because his walking was softer.

Cas was coming towards the bedroom. Dean held his breath, waiting for the inevitable moment of Terminator v.s Destructive Angel to commence.

The bedroom door creaked open, and Cas came in. He fluffed the pillows and straightened out the blankets on his bed. He fixed the rug. He changed the light bulb on the bedroom lamp.

Dean waited.

And waited.

And then he heard the sound of Cas leaving the room, and he allowed himself to breathe again. Cas hadn't found him, at least, not yet, so Dean didn't have to strike today. He could do it tomorrow, or next week, if Uriel didn't do it himself by then.

Dean exited the closet as quietly as possible, and inch by inch, made his way to the window.

Dean stopped, suddenly.

Cas was in the living room.

And he was playing music.

The sight of it was hypnotizing. He watched as Cas' usual stony expression fell away, replaced with a look of great sadness. A man so young shouldn't have as much sorrow as Cas played with. It was as if years of unexpressed emotion were pouring out of him as the clouds poured rain, and as the piano poured music. Cas moved with the piano, and Dean could feel it in his bones the love that boy played with.

Dean felt it in his core, when he stopped playing. He felt the loss. It hurt to watch as Castiel reset his mouth into a hard line.

Dean stayed, watching as Cas breathed heavily, and he watched as Cas set his face in hands.

Cas sat up straight, and in a flash, he'd spotted Dean and had him pinned to the wall.

"Who are you?" Castiel growled. His voice was deeper than Dean would've guessed.

Dean choked, trying to respond with Cas' forearm to his esophagus. Cas relaxed his grip a bit.

"De-" he coughed, and Cas tugged a gun out of his coat, pressing it to Dean's head and letting him go completely.

"Dean," he spit out, coughing again, massaging his throat, and coaxing air back into his lungs.

"Dean, who?"

"Just," another coughing fit, "Dean." he took a few breaths. "Just Dean."

He couldn't give his last name, he shared it with Sam. That could put him in danger.

"Why are you here, Dean?" At least he was giving him a chance, although he was literally holding the gun to his head.

"Money-" he lied.

"I said," Castiel shifted the gun to under Dean's chin. "Why are you here?"

"I-" he sighed. "Work." Uriel was going to be pissed.

"Who do you work for?"

"Justice."

Castiel's eyes widened a fraction of an inch, and he took the gun out from under Dean's chin. Recognition dawned on his features, as he said,

"Green eyes?"


	4. Destructive Angels v.s Terminators

Castiel sat with his hands in his lap, squinting at him, studying.

"So, Green Eyes-"

"Dean," he corrected. Castiel raised his eyebrows, and his fingers twitched, reminding Dean that _he_ wasn't the one with the gun resting on the table.

"Dean," Cas cleared his throat. "Uriel sent you, then?"

Dean considered lying. After all, a face full of Uriel wrath wasn't exactly on his Christmas list.

"Yeah."

"Is it because of Abby?"

"Abby?"

"Red hair, red lipstick..."

_Oh, right. Red bitch._

"I don't know." Castiel's face stiffened almost imperceptibly, and he paused before replying.

"But you followed the order anyways?" Dean picked up on the hint of hurt in Cas' voice, and he cringed. He'd denied jobs before, so why hadn't he said no?

_Because you're a coward._

He dropped his gaze to his own lap. The room seemed colder, more hostile then it had been only moments ago. The rain still hadn't stopped, but Cas' expression was darker than the storm clouds.

"Never mind," his tone was harsh. He was angry.

Anger is a secondary emotion. Sam had told him that. If you make somebody angry, they were first upset or hurt.

"So, Castiel," Cas jumped slightly at the use of his name. "Are you going to kill me now? Because I'd prefer it if you did it quickly. The suspense is pretty frustrating."

Castiel snapped his head up, looking at Dean sharply.

"I only kill when it is necessary."

"Necessary?"

Castiel shrugged, standing up and walking over to the refrigerator. He tugged the door open and reached inside, taking out two water bottles. Dean's gaze wandered to the gun on the table.

"Assignments. When it is deserved."

"When is death ever deserved?" He heard the accusation in his tone. _Hypocrite._

"I only kill when it is right, Dean."

"How can you say that? Killing isn't done because it's right. It's bloodlust. Lack of communication. It's _cowardice,_ Cas, it's-"

Cas set the icy water bottle in front of Dean, sternly.

"You are not in the position to lecture me on why killing is wrong, or need I remind you of the original reason you were here?" Dean swallowed. His throat was dry, but there was no way in hell he was going to drink that water.

"Besides," Cas cracked open his own water bottle, gulping from it. Dean watched as his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "It's not of import. I'm not going to kill you."

Dean met Cas' eyes.

"You aren't?"

Castiel glanced away.

"Not today, Dean." He yawned. Dean could take advantage of it. He was clearly exhausted.

But then Dean yawned, too. He couldn't do it. Not after Cas had trusted him not to attack.

"Although, I hope you realize that if you don't kill me now, Uriel will not take too kindly. His boss does not like to receive bad news."

"I'm not going to kill you, Cas." Cas' face relaxed minutely. Dean stopped, then.

"Uriel has a boss?"

Castiel cocked his head to the side, in the way that tickled Dean's mind. A memory he couldn't quite grasp on to, that he wasn't sure he'd even had.

"Yes," Cas spoke slowly, cautiously. "And his boss has a boss, and his boss' boss has a boss."

Dean glared out the window.

"There are many things you don't know about Justice, then?"

Dean kept his gaze focused on the window. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cas nod.

"There are many things we shouldn't know, Dean."

For some reason, that one sentence made him furious.

Dean swung his arm out, knocking his own water bottle to the floor.

"But what if we should know? Don't you remember how it feels to hurt innocent person?!" He stopped himself. Cas' gaze had shifted to the floor.

"I understand why you feel this-"

"No, you don't, you bastard. You just kill, kill, kill, and you don't feel anything. Well, you can go straight to hell, Castiel. Damn you to hell. I'd send you there myself, if I cared enough. But fortunately for you, I don't."

"Dean, you must understand. I don't have the choice to feel. If I feel, I show weakness. You and I, people like us, in this business, we don't have choices. We don't have options. We serve, because it is the only purpose we have."

Cas reached down and picked up Dean's water bottle. He placed it in the center of the table.

"Perhaps one day, you'll get out." Cas was looking out the window at the downpour.

Dean spoke then. "Our only purpose is not to serve. We can have other choices, other opportunities."

"Maybe for you. You are a good man, and you have a pure heart. You could do it. I believe you could. People like me, though. Dean, I am not a good person. I've done things-terrible things-that cannot be undone."

Dean reached out, grasping his water bottle with two hands.

"You aren't all bad. Sometimes, good people do bad things. You just don't seem like a villain to me, Cas."

He sipped from the bottle, then looked Cas in the eyes.

Cas smiled softly, then.

And they didn't say anything for a while, they just sat there, sipping water, and listening to the rain.

And when it had stopped, hours later, Cas had drifted into a half-sleep, half-mumbling phase, and Dean stood silently. He slipped out of the back door.

And on the table, he left the information on Cas' assignment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is fast paced, and I would appreciate your criticism. Please leave feedback. Should I continue?


	5. Punishment

"So I'm going to ask you _one last time,_ Deano." Uriel spit at him. "What did you tell him?"

Dean's hands were bound behind him, and if he tried hard enough he could probably just snap the chair and make a break for it. But then again, he most likely deserved this.

"Bite me." 

Uriel raised his eyebrows and made an amused noise.

"As you wish."

Dean's eyes widened when Uriel held the tip of a knife to his exposed, already bloody and bruised chest.

"That all you got?" Dean growled. He willed himself to remain still.

Uriel removed the knife, and exaggerated placing the tip in the lit fireplace.

"Hardly. We're just getting started." He smiled wickedly.

Leaving the knife in the fire, Uriel trotted happily over to the table assorted with weapons. He fingered a scalpel, then brushed his hand over what appeared to be a studded club. They were just for looks, Dean figured. Why use a studded club when you have a closet dedicated to shorter blades?

Uriel landed on an empty syringe. He could kill him right now. All it would take was a little air and the right vein and Dean would never see the sun again.

The scary thing was, Dean would let him if he tried.

But no. Apparently, luck (or as good luck as a Winchester had ever been known to have) was in his favor, and Uriel filled the syringe with a purple-ish liquid.

He strutted over to Dean and held the filled syringe up to the light for Dean to admire.

"This, Dean, is one of my favorite toys."

Dean grunted.

"You see, my little friend here has some very special abilities." He rolled it between his fingers. "It will cause you pain, oh, so much pain, but not enough to kill you, and not enough for you to black out."

Uriel made a quick movement and jabbed the needle into the pulsing vein on Dean's neck. As the liquid drained into Dean's body, Uriel grinned.

"I'm going to enjoy every minute of this." Uriel smiled, but his eyes were cold and hard.

Dean pressed his back against the chair, bracing himself for the worst.

But no pain came. Dean waited.

Uriel spoke softly. "I don't need to break you physically, Dean. You need a wake-up call."

Uriel sat down on a chair directly in front of him.

He spoke again, but Dean couldn't hear him properly. His head felt... Fuzzy.

"This affects the Amygdala in your brain. So, it controls your fear responses. Typically, your Amygdalas protect you. But right now, even your own brain is your enemy."

Dean closed his eyes and focused on deep breathing.

Then it hit him like a truck.

Memories flooded his mind. A thousand of them, all at once. Memories he'd spent years burying were becoming uncovered, and they flew at him like a hurricane of pain and terror.

He saw his father swinging a beer bottle, and his mother's mouth set in a firm line leading Sam and Dean to the car. He saw Sam, being beaten by an older kid from a distance and heard himself screaming, running to him. He saw the flames licking up his old house, and the fear in Bobby's eyes when he had picked up both Sam and Dean and ran with them, far away, taking them back to his house and telling them to go to sleep. He saw the faces of people he loved, streaked with tears. He saw the first man he'd killed, his body sinking into the lake, weighted down with stones.

And they kept flying at him, and it _hurt_ and he could hear muffled screams, except he knew it was just him and he hated every moment of it. No, he hated everything, everyone. He hated the world and Uriel and his life, but mostly himself and in that moment if Uriel had handed him a knife he would have sliced his own wrists and enjoyed the red dripping down his arms.

And they kept coming and coming and they weren't stopping and they were _never_ going to stop haunting him and he was _never_ going to get out and he couldn't do anything because he wasn't _strong enough._

He heard a clanging noise, and the emotional pain suddenly turned into physical pain, and his head cleared and he _relished_ it.

He registered that he was on the floor, he'd probably tipped over his chair, and his hands were bloody and so were his nails.

Panting, he tilted his head to narrow his eyes at Uriel.

"You're gonna have to try harder than that."

The last thing he saw was Uriel grinning as he pressed the red hot tip of the knife to Dean's stomach, before his vision went black.


	6. Recovering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Be cordial, and be confident. She smells fear."

*Castiel's POV*

It wasn't long after their first encounter that the simultaneously astounding and aggravating Dean Winchester made a reappearance. Well, not exactly an appearance. They ran into each other at a bar on Saturday night, but it seemed odd that he arrived precisely at the same time as Cas, at the same bar, on the same night. Either it truly was a small world, or Dean was watching him.

Since he'd met Dean in person, he had begun to feel more aware. Certain words now stuck out to him: "villain," "deserving," "choice," and even "freedom." It was a strange feeling, almost similar to watching a movie. It was like he was trapped in a world, but he could feel something else, another presence. He understood that the world he lived in was different. He felt larger. He was larger than life, because for the first time since he could remember, he knew what was going on around him.

He focused less on his work, now, and leaned towards the pleasurable side of life. He'd gotten back into the swing of poetry, and piano. In a matter of days, his routine had been altered.

He was usually sent out on cases weekly, although some took a matter of months to complete. So if he was estimating correctly, he would be getting one tonight.

Only, he didn't  _want_ one.  

****

*Dean's POV*

"Come on, skinny looove, just last the ye-"

"No, Sam." Dean clicked off the radio, trying his best to get the damn song out of his head. Sam was into it.

"It's good music! If you'd just listen to the lyrics, you'd understand what I mean." Sam rested his head on the passenger seat's window, and huffed in annoyance. He pressed a button on his phone and tapped out a quick text, then pocketed the phone.

"I'm preserving your masculinity."

"I'm fairly certain my _masculinity_ isn't threatened by Bon Iver, Dean."

"So you think, young grasshopper." Dean reached over to ruffle Sam's hair affectionately.

Sam ignored Dean's protests and turned the radio back on. Thirty seconds in, much to Dean's annoyance, he found himself singing along.

"Now all your love was wasted, then who the hell was Iiiiiii?" 

The two brothers yelled out the lyrics. (It was a coincidence they both knew these, of course. Not like they'd ever listened to it before or anything.) When they arrived at Sam's house, and Jess ran out to greet them, Dean's heart contracted. God, he loved them.

Fast goodbyes are always the worst kind, even if they're only temporary.

****

"Of course I'm sure she'll be there. She invited me. Meet me outside in five minutes." Cas' voice was excited, yet also urgent.

"Fine, but if all hell breaks loose, I'm bailing. Don't count on me to drag your stupid ass out of there, either." Dean hung up the phone, feeling only slightly guilty.

Great, his humanity was disappearing. Perfect for his job.

The Red Bitch, ahem, _Abby,_ had selected Cas for a new assignment, as expected, and Cas rung Dean, jabbering on about how they could gather information, or work something out, or escape the business, and all that kind of hopeful crap that probably wouldn't work out for Dean.

Nothing ever did, these days.

He rushed over and huddled on a bench outside of the diner Cas was arranged to meet Red at, and scanned the parking lot for a mop of darkly colored hair.

When he spotted him, he sighed in relief and exasperation. The idiot was wearing a trench coat, of all things. Cas marched over to where Dean was sitting, and plopped down next to him.

"Looking inconspicuous, as always," Dean muttered under his breath. He reached up to blow on his icicle hands. Maybe the trench coat hadn't been such a terrible idea. It looked warm.

Cas gave an annoyed glance, before thrusting his green scarf at him. Dean took it, embarrassed, but it helped to thaw his frozen fingers.

"I look like a leprechaun," Dean complained.

"Jesus, Dean. If you must know, the green compliments your eyes nicely, so there's no need to whine. I didn't realize you could be such a baby."

"I am _not_ a baby," Dean blurted out indignantly.

"Okay, she just texted me," Cas scrolled through his messages carefully. "She's in the back right of the restaurant."

"Right, so you'll be dining, and I'll just be out here staring through the window?"

"No. You're observing. Watch for abnormal body movements, like a flinch or twitch, or a clenching of her hand. Tell tale signals to emotions. You have the head phones, and I already checked my microphone, so you should be able to see her and know what set her off."

"Okay, got it. Not that big of an operation, so I guess if it doesn't work, then no harm done?"

"Sure. If something happens, be confident, and be cordial. She smells fear."

Cas stood up, and dusted off his pants. He drew in a breath, and steadied himself before stalking into the diner. He hoped his posture told everybody to back off. He walked towards his dinner guest, and seated himself. Except something was different, something was off.

There were two figures.

"Castiel," Abby greeted him with a smile like venom.

"Abbadon, and..?" Castiel looked at the man seating next to her. He wore a suit and had a gleam in his eye.

"Crowley," The man introduced himself.

The big boss. They called in the big guns.

He was in trouble. Fuck, he was standing in hellfire. Crowley was a time-bomb. He may seem calm and collected now, but in ten minutes he could have a gun to his head. Castiel glanced out the window, and hoped he conveyed the message with his eyes. "Abort. Get out, now. Leave. Run."

Dean wasn't visible, but Cas knew he was out there somewhere.

Then, Dean strode stiffly into the diner. Cas wondered what was going on, but then a cluster of obviously attentive men trailed in behind him. Dean seated himself next to Cas, and squeezed his leg under the table.

Crowley smiled at the two men seated in front of him, and laced his fingers together on the table.

"Ello boys, I believe we've got some things to talk about."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've been truly amazing, and I love you guys. Will add to this as I'm inspired, but seriously, I need an alarm or something to remind me to POST. Ugh.  
> Xxxxx


	7. A Deal With The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If violence makes you uncomfortable, I suggest that you skip some of the next coming chapter.

"I don't think we've met?" Dean's voice was hollow and blank, and Cas tensed.

"Pardon my manners," Crowley said, voice thick with sarcasm. "I'm Crowley. King of Hell." He gestured proudly with his arms.

"Right, okay." Dean rolled his eyes and Crowley narrowed his.

"And you are?"

"Well, since I'm already here, I'm assuming you know."

Crowley nodded, grinning. He clapped his hands like a child. "You're quite a legend where I'm from."

Dean was like a statue, not giving anything away in his expression, and not letting any of Crowley's words affect him. Abby had stayed silent throughout the exchange, looking a bit uncomfortable herself. She had an air of annoyance and was leaning away from Crowley.

"Can we get on with this?" Cas said sternly.

"Patience, Castiel." Abby hissed. She smiled a smile that was all pointed teeth.

"Castiel! Hello there, I didn't see you! We've got some nice things to chat about." Crowley cheered.

Just then a waitress ran up to the table, and smiled in a friendly manner.

"Boys, lady, would you like something to drink?"

While Abby shook her head and Cas croaked out a small, "water." Dean considered how handy a drink could be right now. He could splash it into somebody's eyes, but he was in a booth, or maybe he could use a bottle..

"A beer, please. Whatever the house brew is." He smiled charmingly at the waitress.

She nodded, blushing, and pranced away. He considered how sharp a beer bottle would be when it was broken.

Seemingly reading his mind, Cas gave him a look that _screamed_ "You idiot."

Meanwhile, Cas eyed the glass water cups and the fork that laid on the napkin in front of him.

"As I was saying, boys, we need to talk. You both know of the feud between our two," he smiled smugly and cleared his throat, "Er, groups. Yes?"

Cas nodded and Dean stared straight ahead.

"Yes, that's what I thought. So why would two rivaling killers accompany one another to dinner?"

"He didn't come with me," Cas growled.

"I don't believe you, but that isn't what I'm here about." Crowley frowned.

"You are two of the most elite performers in either group, you both understand this?" Abby piped in.

"We aren't stupid. Just get on with it." Dean spat.

"Well, we have a task of great importance that we would like you both to accept. Together."

"Absolutely not." Cas announced, quickly without missing a beat.

Abby glared at him and frowned, angrily. She clenched her fists. "You don't know what it is yet."

Dean shifted his position to eye her. "I work alone."

"Oh, but you're never really alone, are you? That brother of yours must be good company." Crowley re-entered the conversation.

Cas turned to look at Dean, astonished.

"Brother?"

"Don't you know, Castiel?"

Cas hoped he didn't look too shocked.

"I don't have a brother." Dean said, coldly. He fiddled with the butter knife he was holding under the table.

Crowley shook his head, huffing.

The waitress skipped over to their table, and deposited Cas' water in front of him. She opened Dean's beer, and reached for a glass, but he stopped her.

"Just the bottle, thanks." She smiled at him, and tugged at her hair as she walked away.

"Well, here's the case information." Abby slid a folder across the table at Dean and Cas.

Cas gingerly opened the folder and lifted up the first sheet of paper. He scanned it, then handed it to Dean, who set it on the table without looking it over. It had just been contact info, how long they expected it to take, the works.

The next sheet was more peculiar, though. It was a list of names. Many names in alphabetical order, a hit list. Cas looked over this list briefly, before passing it to Dean as well.

Dean glanced at the sheet and tensed, his eyes landing on a few familiar names. He reached for Cas' other hand under the table, and gripped it hard, conveying the message. "Stop. No." Cas stopped flipping through the pages and looked over at Dean, who's eyes were wide. Cas stared at him with concern, before looking where Dean was.

There on the list, were names that were mostly unfamiliar to Cas, but known by Dean.

Charlie Bradbury.

Bobby Singer.

And at the bottom of the list, and small black print, was the name he feared ever seeing again.

John Winchester.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm setting an alarm to post another chapter next weekend. I SHALL NOT SNOOZE IT.


	8. No Way Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: If you are uncomfortable with violence, then you can message me at Hiddeninthebook on twitter or Hiddenbehindthebook on instagram (no, I do not have kik) and I can summarize to you what goes on in this chapter with less bloody stuff.

*Cas' POV*

Cas faced a very much panicking Dean, who was just about cutting off the circulation in his hand. He looked agitated, confused, and vengeful all at once and he had no idea which emotion he was about to act on.

This could potentially become a massacre within the span of two minutes.

Dean was looking murderous, and Cas attempted to catch his eye. He could  _not_ let his emotions take the wheel. So Cas did the only thing he could think of.

He tapped on the table.

No, not just random tapping. A pattern, a code. Morse code. He continued to tap.

D---E---A---N

It didn't catch his attention, so he continued.

D---E---A---N

D---E---A---N

H---O---T---H---E---A---D---E---D---B---A---S---T---A---R---D

H---E---Y---D---U---M---B---A---S---S

D---E---A---N

Finally, the stupid fucker squeezed his hand, so he continued with his message. Now he was quoting Horace, something he knew Dean would recognize.

R---U---L---E---T---H---Y---P---A---S---S---I---O---N

F---O---R---U---N---L---E---S---S---I---T---O---B---E---Y---S

I---T---R---U---L---E---S---Y---O---U

Dean shook his head a fraction of an inch. He was stubborn, Cas knew, and unless he could find out the reason he was so infuriated, he couldn't help him. Crowley was watching Dean, trying to read his expression, but Dean had put his mask back on. He was stone cold.

"Recognize anybody, boys?" Crowley asked innocently.

Answering before Dean could snap, Cas spoke quickly, "A few from around town, but nobody special. What did they do?"

Crowley smiled at Dean, a smile that was more menacing than comforting, and shook his head as if pitying them.

"Ask, and you will receive."

Cas scanned the list again, eyes stopping on a few names, but Dean asked first.

"John Winchester?"

He had said it plainly enough, but he'd squeezed Cas' hand as he did, so Cas listened while he continued to read the list.

"Many things, squirrel." _Squirrel?_

"Like?"

"Not that it should concern you, but he was a type of double agent. Used to go back and forth between the circles, gain their trust, and when he'd found out what he wanted to know, he'd alert..." Crowley slowed his speech, aware that he was saying too much as Abby pierced his leg with her nails.

Cas perked up. "Alert who?"

Abby glared at him, and hissed, "Nobody that concerns either of you two."

"A certain group that people like us generally avoid," growled Crowley.

"Another circle?" Dean asked.

Abby shook her head. "Not like us."

Cas gingerly lifted the pen that sat on the table, and began to scratch at the page.

"But that isn't what we're talking about here, boys. Are you taking the case?"

Dean and Cas turned to look at each other. Dean shook his head and Cas squeezed his hand, a silent discussion passing between them.

"We have to decline, sorry."

"Sorry?" mocked Abby, incredulously.

Crowley shook his head, and pouted at them. He beckoned the group of men to join him, in which one squeezed in the booth next to Dean and Cas, and the other two hesitantly stood around the table.

The one next to Dean frowned at him, and Dean glared back.

"Why ever not?"

Cas desperately tried to send him telepathic messages to tell him not to be an idiot. But no, Dean chose to not say something smart.

"You know why."

"Do I?"

Dean nodded and Cas watched the exchange, feeling confused and useless, but ready to pounce if needed.

"Do you really expect me to go all Benedict Arnold on their asses?"

Crowley nodded, raising his eyebrows as if to say, _why not?_

"The answer is no."

"What did daddy ever do for you?" Crowley snapped, brushing his hands on his suit before resting them on the table.

Cas stopped breathing and it seemed as if the entire room had frozen.

"You don't know my father."

"I do, actually. I condemned him myself."

Condemned. He'd ordered the kill list. Crowley had personally selected these people, so they were special.

And then Dean lost control.

He smashed the bottom of the beer bottle on the table and chucked the sharp end at Crowley's face, smashing his nose.

And then, all hell broke loose.

Dean leapt at Crowley, tackling him from the table and pressing him up against the wall. Meanwhile, Crowley's men leapt at him. Cas picked up his _fucking tiny_ fork, having to save that stupid asshole.

One of the men had Dean in a head lock, which Dean quickly freed himself from and punched him in the face, causing a steady stream of blood to erupt from his nose. Crowley brushed off his suit, and motioned for the men to grab Dean.

Cas jumped from the booth, getting one man to the ground, then kicking him in the face, knocking him out. The next man came at Cas, the already bleeding one, but he was bulkier and a better fighter than the last. He clenched Cas' neck in both hands, while Cas struggled to escape his grasp. He was losing air, which meant losing conciousness.

Then he heard a massive crash and the man holding Cas turned to find Dean's opponent on the counter, bleeding heavily from his head.

"Alistaire!" cried Abby, rushing to him, but Dean clubbed her with the broken bottle and she too collapsed to the ground.

Meanwhile, the restaraunt was chaotic. People were running, tried to get out of the building, screaming, some were trying to take photos, and others were attempting to call the police.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Cas tugged himself from the choke position he had been in, then stumbled back, coughing and gasping for breath. He looked for anything that could be used as a weapon surrounding him, he'd dropped the fork, and knew that if he went for the kitchen he'd be leaving Dean alone.

Dean.

He looked for him amongst the chaos, spotting Crowley leaning against the wall, speaking into a cell phone. Dean was nowhere to be seen, and now that he thought about it, neither was his previous opponent.

So, he went for the only person he could see that was awake, and charged at Crowley. He knocked the phone from his grasp, and Crowley jumped at him. Cas, however, just so happened to be an elite warrior and swiveled around him gracefully.

Cas finally found that damn fork, and just as Crowley was reaching for his phone, he kicked the phone away from him and Crowley was instead met with a handful of fork.

Howling at the pain of having his hand now pinned to the wall, Crowley whipped a gun out from his pants and took aim at Cas. One hand wouldn't be good enough to take the kick-back, but there was always the chance of being hit, especially with a smaller gun that had less of a kick.

Cas froze.

Crowley smiled.

And then, he fired the gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate me. This story isn't over yet. *hides under my laptop*  
> Xxxx,  
> Hiddenbehindthebook


	9. This Is A Mess (Or Maybe You Are)

*Dean's POV*

The first thing Dean registered was that he wasn't dead.

The second was that with the way Cas was looking at him, he was probably about to be.

They were in a car, not baby, luckily. Cas was driving, so it was either his or he stole it and if he were being honest, Cas was smart enough not to drive a stolen vehicle in broad daylight.

"Are you a fucking idiot, Dean?" Cas said icily as soon as they reached a red light.

Dean smiled.

"Don't you fucking grin at me. You just jumped in front of a fucking bullet, you could have _died_."

"You're welcome." Dean mumbled, wincing at his pounding head.

Cas sighed and reached out a hand to feel Dean's forhead. He raised his eyebrows as if to ask him where it hurt. Dean pointed at his temple, then dropped his arm in his lap.

"I would have been fine, you know." Cas was quieter, now, gently massaging his head.

Dean nodded. Cas was rather experienced in the fighting field, but Crowley pulled a gun, and Dean acted on instinct.

"He was going to shoot you."

"I can handle myself, Dean." Cas said sternly.

Dean didn't remember exactly what he'd planned on doing when he saw Cas at gun-point, but all he could think of was protecting him. He had just taken down the last (hopefully?) of Crowley's men moments before, and had disabled the security cameras as well as deleting the footage.

When he returned to the room, all he could see was the gun, and so he jumped.

He knocked Cas to the floor, and he heard a loud bang accompanied with a flash of pain. He remembered only glimpses, then. A scream, it wasn't his, he didn't think so at least. Crowley slumped against the wall. Cas' hands on his face, eyes filled with panic. A siren wailing.

Then all he saw was blackness and his mother's face.

"Sorry, man," Dean fixed his gaze on a point out the window.

Cas sped up, his knuckles whitening where they where clenching the steering wheel. He cleared his thoat, contemplating whether to console or chastise.

"I implore you, Dean, to not doubt my abilities," he decided on, "It's important that when functioning as a team, we both understand what we are and aren't capable of, and that we trust each other."

Dean's breath hitched in his chest when the car bounced over a length of terribly crooked pavement. Had he been shot? He was well-aquainted with gunshot wounds, and this pain was more a throbbing as opposed to a burning or a stinging sensation. Looking down at himself, he couldn't pinpoint where the blood on his clothing had come from. Hell, it might not even be his. There was an ugly bluish mark running up his left forearm, and fabric strings clinging to dried blood from where his shirt had to be removed. If he were being completely honest, he'd expected worse. He then realized what Cas had said, about trusting him and believing in each other. He was suddenly swimming in his own guilt.

"That's not it. I do trust you and you damn well know I get what you can do. It's just that whenever somebody gets close to me, they get killed. Usually worse. I didn't want that to happen to you," 

"Even something as small as a business partnership?"

The words were true, but oddly enough, they stung.

"But," he paused to arrange his thoughts into conversational terms, "We aren't really just war-buddies, are we? I mean, it's kinda weird, but I sort of maybe consider you my friend,"

He turned to look at Cas, but the man remained stoic, as always. Cas was good at hiding his emotions, and Dean guessed he was as well.

"And I, you," Cas exhaled, relieving the tension.

Dean chuckled.

"What?"

"It's nothing,"

"What do you mean?"

"You just talk a little funny. Not in a bad way,"

Far from a bad way, and although he didn't tell Cas, he sort of admired his articulacy. It was annoying at first, it made him seem more aloof than he already appeared, the bastard, but it grew endearing. He had an old charm about him. There was something more graceful about him than anybody else Dean associated himself with. It wasn't a sharp grace, more subtle, and he seemed to float rather than walk and sing rather than talk. Not literally, but close enough.

"You hit your head rather badly," Cas sighed, making a left turn onto his street, "But the bullet only grazed your shoulder. You seem yourself, perhaps a bit less sarcastic than usual, but I'd still like to check and make sure you're alright. We can just stop at my house."

Cas' house. Dean had become more accustomed to it in the period of him he'd spent face to face with Cas. It was cozy, now that he had looked at it as an occupant and not as an observer. It smelled like Cas. Mixed scents of honey, coffee, and sometimes he chewed that acursed (fucking delicious) cinnamon gum. There was something darker, too, something uniquely Cas. It was spicy and rich, but not overwhelming. The house sounded of crackling fires and sometimes, if he were lucky and Cas wasn't shy, of sweet music from the piano.

Yeah, maybe he liked Cas' house. It often seemed more inviting than his empty home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this didn't really go anywhere. It was more of a feely chapter for the characters, and so the readers could see the relationships between them deepen. (Also I'm sick so this is a filler and my mind isn't working properly)  
> Anywaaaaaaaaays  
> Thank you all so so so much for reading this and supporting me, and for loving the characters like I do. This has almost 900 reads! That's INSANE. ZANY. SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALIDOCIOUS.  
> Xxxx,  
> Hiddenbehindthebook


	10. Rain Came Pouring Down When I Was Drowning

Cas's POV  
 

  
     He jiggled the lock once again before finally giving up and bashing his shoulder against the stubborn door, which turned out to be a bad idea. He winced at his throbbing shoulder. Shit. He'd forgotten about dislocating that. It would have to wait. He stepped aside, holding the door open for Dean to hobble through.   
       
  Dean inhaled.  
      
  Cas hid his smile.  
       
  The door slammed behind them.  
      
  Dean sat delicately on the couch, but didn't make himself comfortable as per usual. Cas raised an eyebrow and when Dean didn't respond, he raised two. Dean bit his lower lip and Cas went to take a seat next to him, before tapping his lip gently to get him to stop.   
       
  "You can lay down, you know," Cas stood and patted the sofa. "See? Comfy."   
       
  When Dean didn't shift, Cas sighed and went to brew some tea, but when he came back in Dean was still just staring at the wall.  
       
  "Dean,"   
      
  "I didn't want to ruin your pillows. With, uhm, you know. Blood." He gasped when Cas grabbed his legs and pulled him so he was stretched out, and blushed furiously when Cas brought his face near to Dean's.  
      
  "Fuck the pillows."   
       
  "I'm astounded, Mr.Novak. Throwing eloquence to the wind." Cas smirked and gestured to Dean's battered side.  
      
  "Let's get you cleaned up."  
       
  And so Dean walked to the bathroom (more dragged than anything), and was boosted to sit on the counter like an eight year old. He frowned.   
       
  "What?" Cas rested his hand on Dean's bent knee.  
       
  "I feel like a toddler." Dean pouted again.  
       
  "That's because you are." He removed the tiny first aid kit from the cabinet in the mirror a removed a small nottle of alcohol. When he reached towards Dean, the asshole used his foot to block Cas's hand. He shook his head firmly. Cas shot out a hand to hold him still, but instead of succeeding, Dean fell off the counter and he was forced to catch him so he wouldn't get a concussion from the fucking toilet seat.  
       
  "Come-" he grunted when Dean elbowed him in the shoulder. "Here- you little-" But he shut up when he found himself face to face with Dean. His warm breath ghosted over Cas's skin, and Cas's hands were holding Dean's hips. He wanted so badly to lean in and-  
       
  He jumped back. Not in this business.   
      
  "Just," he cleared his throat, "Let me clean your wounds."  
       
  "Maybe if you were gentle, this wouldn't be a problem," Dean huffed. Cas dumped the bottle directly onto his cuts, feeling accomplished when Dean hissed in pain.  
      
  He _definitely_ did not feel bad. _Nope._  
       
  Not at all.  
       
  "You son of a bitch!" Dean breathed heavily, his entire body stinging. He reached out his hands to lock onto something, one of which was the side of the sink while the other hand clenched Cas's shirt. He inhaled, held it in, exhaled, and repeated the process to ease the pain.  
      
  "Baby," Cas teased.  
      
  "Shut up," Dean shut his eyes and sat back on the counter, waiting for his next move.  
       
  "Sorry," Cas snickered. Dean turned his head the other way. "It can't get infected, you know that," Dean leaned away from Cas. Cas sighed and dabbed various products onto his wounds, before wrapping Dean's bare torso in gauze tightly. Dean grumbled as they walked back into the living room. They went to sit on the couch, and Dean sat on the edge of the other side. The farthest he could get from him.  
      
  "You can't stay mad at me forever,"   
        
  Dean scrunched his nose. They sat in silence, Cas pondering if he actually could stay mad forever until Dean chuckled softly.  
        
  "What?"  
       
  "You're cute when you think," Cas snapped his head up, blushing.  
      
  "And even cuter when you're flustered," Dean continued.   
       
  "I-I a-am not," Cas stuttered.   
       
  Dean grinned as Cas, being the elite warrior he is, struggled to regain his composure.

 

Dean's POV

 

  "Hey!" Cas exclaimed, trying to distract from the previous conversation, "Rain," Dean pretended to be agitated, but Cas adored the rain. Dean's shoulder flared up every time.   
       
  "Great."   
       
  But Cas was already outside, stupidly spinning around. If he continued like that, he'd probably catch a cold. He was sure to notify Cas of this, but the bastard just accused him of "mothering". So, Dean sauntered inside and grabbed that stupid fucking trenchcoat that smelled like Cas, and slipped it over himself to keep the bandages dry. Then he chased after the blue eyed man.  
       
  "Hey," Dean grumbled, shivering. Out of habit, he reached for his shoulder. Cas tapped his hand so he'd let go of his arm. Fuck, that shoudn't be so endearing.   
       
  "That's my coat," He didn't say it accusingly, just factually, and warmly. Dean nodded, shrugging and pulling it closer to his sides.  
       
  "You cold?" Dean asked.  
       
  "N-no,"   
      
  "Fucking liar. Your teeth are chattering. C'mere," He held open the coat for Cas to step into. Cas was cold and wet next to Dean, who practically radiated heat.  
      
  Cas pulled back. "You're getting your bandages wet!"  
      
  "You wrapped the bandages in plastic specifically for that reason, Cas."  
       
  Cas didn't usually get cold, Dean had learned from spending so much time with him. But that didn't stop Dean from rubbing up and down his arms to warm them anyways. Cas cuddled closer to Dean, breathing in the smell of rain and Dean. He guessed that they'd both become so used to each other that physical boundaries weren't an issue. It also helped that Cas had no perception of personal space, so even if there was space in a room, he'd be standing **as close to Dean as possible.**   
    
  He pulled Cas closer to him, wrapping his arms around him with Cas doing the same, and he cautiously rested his head on Cas's shoulder. He inhaled, the scent of Cas and rain comforting him.  
   
 And that's when he could finally breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap, I'm a monster. I am so sorry for practically abandoning this story! I don't want to make promises that I may or may not deliver on, so I'm just going to say that I will update with inspiration. (Which hopefully will come consistently, but summer is almost here, so I'll have much more time to write.) What's new, you ask?  
>  Well, this story has reached ONE THOUSAND READS. THIS IS THE MOST EXCITING THING EVER TO OCCUR EVER. (Ah, eloquence.) Uh, I've had concerts and parties and study sessions (oh my), and I started another story that's doing rather well on danisnotonfire and AmazingPhil called Who We Were. In other words, I've been extremely stressed out but I'll do my best to give you guys more of my favorite killers. Heh.   
>  Now I'm rambling, so, thank you so much and I'm so sorry!  
>  Xxxx  
> Hiddenbehindthebook


	11. Toxic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summer vacation, I welcome thee.  
> Much love,  
> Xxxxxx,  
> Hiddenbehindthebook

Dean's POV

   He woke up to his three favorite S's. Screaming, sweating, and shivering. He was the one doing all three. He rolled over to the side of his

bed and grasped the phone in both hands, gasping for breath as he did so. There weren't many people he could call, but there was one he always

would.

   Sam.

   ****

Sam's POV

   

   Sam arrived in under five minutes soaked to the bone in rainwater and bent by Dean's side, reminding himself of the times they'd nursed each

other back to health as kids when they were ill. Dean grunted when Sam tried to flip him onto his stomach.

   "What happened? I need you to roll over so I can see," Sam prodded him in the leg and urged him to move, but Dean did nothing. He poked him

again.

   "Hurts," is all he could squeeze out. Sam brushed his sweaty palms on his pants, and flipped Dean quickly, wincing at his brother's pained cry. He was about to

apologize, but instead decided to focusing on keeping his mouth closed for fear of vomiting at the sight of the disaster beneath his shirt.  
   
   Most of his back was covered in ugly purple and red markings, tinted with green at the least marked spaces. Portions of his ribs were scratched, and

his arm was the color of a sunset. He steeled himself.

   "How long have these been exposed, Dean?"

   "They haven't," he rasped, motioning for a glass of water which Sam passed him.

   "That isn't _possible_. They're clearly infected, and if they were properly sterilized and wrapped they wouldn't be!" Sam searched Dean's face for

any sign of lying, but he only displayed raw, undeniable pain.

   "A....A friend patched me up earlier today, and I cleaned them again tonight. But that's it. Clean sheets and everything," Dean struggled to get the

words out and coughed when he'd finished.

   Sam plopped on a chair, only to bounce right back up.

   "What did you use to clean it?"

   "On the," he coughed, "Sink. Stuff the friend gave me."

   "I didn't know you had friends," Sam grumbled as he marched to the bathroom and scooped up the small bottle. Rubbing alcohol? That would

have been used on shallower cuts, not the obviously damaged flesh currently on his brother. Unless they'd been reopened?

   "Dean!"

   "Yeah?"

   "I need you to call your friend and tell them to come over here, now. It's important," he said.

   "Sam, we aren't exactly-"

   "Then give me the number and I'll call! Now!"

   Sam thrust a notepad and a pen and paper to Dean, who scribbled (with difficulty) a string of digits. Sam refilled his water glass before taking his

cell phone and the page to the covered back porch, swearing as he went out because his stupid-fucking-dipshit-brother doesn't check his medicine.

   Rain stubbornly continued to slam down from the heavens, and while he liked the cold, it probably wasn't helping Dean right now, considering his

lack of indoor heating.

   The phone rang: once, twice, three times, and then to voicemail. He waited for the answering machine to finish.

   "Hey, uh," he squinted at the paper, "Cas. Hey. This is Sam. Uh, you don't know me, but I think you know my brother. He said I probably

shouldn't call but listen Cas, he's hurt." He cleared his throat. "He's hurt...Pretty bad. And it's infected, and he's burning up, and I just don't really

know what to do. Uh, it's Dean. So.. If you-" He was cut off by a deep voice.

   "Hello?"

   "Cas! This is Castiel, right?"

   Silence.

   "Yes. You're Dean's brother? Sam?"

   "Yeah, uh, look, can you come over? I know it's wet and cold but he needs help..."

   "I'll be there in five minutes," Cas rushed, and Sam heard the jingling of his keys.

   "Okay, the address-"

   "I know where it is. See you soon, Sam."

****

   "Sam," Cas greeted him as he strutted through the door towards Dean, who was still face planting on the bed. Sam bounced back in surprise

before following the dripping man inside.

   Cas examined Dean's back briefly, and his composure seemed to falter at Dean's pained face. He smoothed his hand gently through Dean's hair, and

nodded at him in greeting. Then he moved to where the bottle was sat on his dresser. He clutched it tightly in one hand, staring at it as if willing it to

unlock all of its secrets.

   He spoke as he noticed things. "Same bottle, same label, same company. Same amount gone that there was supposed to be. Same coloring

and-" he took a whiff before choking on fumes.

   "What the FUCK is this?!" He pointed at Dean.

   "I don't know, man, you fucking gave i-"

   "This is not what I gave you. It's been tagged. They god damn poisoned you, Dean, and you didn't even notice. A professional like you! I don't

know what the hell this is, and it could kill you, and it would be my fault and I can't..." He breathed, and put the mask back on. "I am sorry for my

outburst."

   "At least we know you have feelings now," Dean mumbled.

   Cas let his shoulders droop and plopped onto the bed next to Dean, and Sam heard a quiet _sorry_ as Cas ran his fingers down Dean's

arm soothingly.

   Friends, indeed, Sam thought with a quiet chuckle.

****

   Cas lit it on fire. It was that simple.

   The drug exploded with it, which at least proved that Dean's state was an affect of the medicine.

   But before he could run tests on it, Dean needed to sleep through an entire night. So Cas was invite to stay, and politely accepted, but only lay

gently next to Dean, while Sam snuggled up on the armchair.

   Now to survive the night.


	12. The Next Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I don't really know what to say. It's been over a year since I've updated this story, and I have no excuses? I'm sorry, but I love you guys and this story. I was gonna try to write a final chapter and just end it here, but it felt too rushed so I did write a chapter, but I think there will be a couple more before I end this. Not gonna promise any dates, because we know how well that went.   
> Anyways, I hope you like this.  
> Xxxx,  
> Hiddenbehindthebook

  Cas woke first, or maybe he hadn't even been sleeping. He didn't recall. Most of the night he had spent standing guard and periodicially checking Dean's pulse.  
      
         There was a time when he went to check, and he didn't feel the steady beat he had ten minutes ago. He didn't feel Dean's pulse, and suddenly he couldn't breathe. He couldn't fucking _breathe_ , and Sam was asleep and unaware of his big brother fading, and Cas didn't know what to tell him, what to tell himself. He didn't know how to convince himself that this wasn't his fault, because he had killed Dean.

Dean, who had hurt so much and still lived so kindly.   
Dean, who liked his coffee black but his tea sweet.  
Dean, who who liked sunsets but adored sunrises.  
Dean, who loved his brother more than anything in the world including himself.  
Dean, who had convinced Cas that they were gonna make it, that they were gonna be free.

         **Gone**.

         And then Dean had stirred under the heavy weight of Cas's fingers, still clawing for a pulse, and Cas almost laughed because he was okay and the sun was rising and so would Dean, soon. Cas wanted to stand, to stretch his legs and step out for fresh air, but he wanted Dean to live more than he wanted to breathe so beside him he remained, playing guardian angel. 

         Sam stirred. Once, twice, then sighed and cracked an eye open. He uncurled himself from the chair and stood, the floorboards creaking as he stepped towards Dean. His hand went for Dean's pulse but stopped, seeing Cas's already there, for he hadn't removed it since the scare. He went for his wrist instead, trusting Cas but needing to feel the beat for himself, and upon finding it he gave a small smile.

        "Well," he croaked, voice thick with the morning. "Coffee?"

         Cas nodded, and Sam trudged into the kitchen.

***

      Dean tensed, and a hand withdrew itself from where it had been resting on Dean's neck. The bed shifted as somebody got up. He rubbed his eyes before rolling over to find Cas sitting in his bedroom, looking tired but aware as he sat at the edge of the rug.

     "Hey, buddy."

      And Cas smiled. His whole face changed when he smiled, his stoic expression disappearing as he dropped the walls he so often worked to repair. He glowed.

      "Where's Sammy?" he asked as he went to rise, but Cas was on him in a second easing him back onto the bed.

      "Making coffee. You need to rest, Dean. Stay put."

       Dean groaned as Cas marched off to get Sam from the kitchen. He made to stand again but only got as far as sitting with his legs off the side when Cas spoke from the other room.

      "I _will_ kill you if you get up again, Dean. I'm good at my profession," but he didn't protest when Dean walked into the kitchen himself, only huffed and handed Dean a mug.

      Sam was staring at him, scanning him, making sure he was really alive. Then he angrily came towards Dean and hugged him, hard.

      "Woah there, tiger," Dean choked as Sam's hands pressed against his wounds, causing a sharp pain. But he didn't push him away.

      "Never do that again," and Dean nodded when Sam released him. Dean sipped his coffee and sat down at their pathetic excuse of a coffee table.

      Cas and Sam joined him, and they drank their coffee in comfortable silence, squished together, but together.


End file.
